


Spring in November

by Violets



Series: Spring in November [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Badly Negotiated Kink, Bruises, D/s, Geralt is a loving service top, He doesn't play responsibly, He's also Jaskier's wonderful boy, Jaskier is a pain whore, M/M, Marking, Masochist Jaskier, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Ultraviolence, hot though, no beta we die like witchers, punching kink, strangely wholesome, submissive Geralt, toss a review to your writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violets/pseuds/Violets
Summary: Geralt wishes he could say no. Jaskier asks for too much. But no isn’t a very obedient word.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Spring in November [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003686
Comments: 3
Kudos: 98





	Spring in November

It starts off fairly innocuous.

They’ve been fucking for over a year when Geralt allows Jaskier to take over. It isn't a massive discovery or a gigantic conversation. Around the fourth of fifth time they are booted from a town following a job, around the fourth of fifth time that Geralt goes sad and nonverbal and nervously strokes at Roach while Jaskier trails behind, the bard leads him to a clearing. He makes the camp. He sits Geralt down. He tells him to stay. He fishes and when he returns, Geralt hasn’t moved. He allows Jaskier to hand him food.

He goes to bed when he’s told. From there, each bad day, each rubbish exchange with some overly smug lord, Jaskier takes over. A little at a time. And, one day, amazingly, astonishingly, after a failed drowner kill and a vicious fight with Yen, Geralt sits by the Bard and asks if he can ‘do the thing’.

So he ‘does the thing’ and Geralt sits by him and follows his instruction to clean the pots.

It takes a while before the deference creeps into other aspects of their lives. It starts off as a poorly thought-out anxiety management strategy (really, how will Geralt cope on the road on his own, if he’s entirely reliant on Jaskier’s assistance?) and then becomes a (slightly healthier) addition to their bedroom antics.

Geralt can be so, so pliant. Gentle. Mouldable. Jaskier can see what attracted Yennefer. Geralt is wonderful, lying on his back, thrusting up as forcefully as required. Or sat, back to the headboard, hands bunched obediently in the sheets, as Jaskier rides him and rides him and bids him stay still.

Jaskier adores the control. Nothing makes him hard like knowing that he, Julian, travelling bard, has the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, entirely at his disposal. It’s a high he never knew he needed.

Arguably the most dangerous man on this side of the world, and all of his strength belongs to Jaskier.

* * *

Jaskier has always liked it a little rough. The odd spank with any partner. Restraints with the Countess. Hard fucks with stable-boys against tavern walls that always left him with his back scraped raw and his hole dripping cum.

The idea of receiving that treatment from Geralt, with his calloused hands and completely docile bedroom demeanour, was always going to be too good to pass up.

It starts gentle. Geralt, despite the firm punch he landed to Jaskier’s stomach shortly after they met, spooks at the very thought of hitting Jaskier.

“Please, darling. It’ll be like what we do now. Exactly the same. Except you’ll be a bit more… active in our games.”

That day Geralt, for the first time, offers Jaskier a few half-hearted slaps while he fucks him from behind.

* * *

It escalates quickly. Jaskier has never exercised any restraint when it comes to his many vices.

“Geralt. Slap my face.”

He has his legs over the Witcher’s shoulders, his lover buried balls-deep inside him. He’s close, so, so close, he just needs a little something to push him over the edge.

“What? Jas, I–“

“Slap me, Witcher. Now.”

They’ve been playing for so long now that Jaskier’s commanding tone overrides Geralt’s objections. He levels a short, sharp slap that makes Jaskier’s head turn and his cock pulse, finally, between them.

* * *

The first fight they have, Jaskier realises how much he enjoys the harsh side of Geralt.

“I remember, one time, me and the Lord’s nephew, I always forget his name, pretty little thing, blonde hair and the pertest arse I’ve ever seen–“

“Shut. Up.”

It’s a shock, now, to hear Geralt’s rumbling annoyance.

“What?”

“I don’t want to hear about your conquests, Jaskier. It’s not polite.”

“Well, he actually grabbed me, and bent me over, and–“

“Jaskier! Shut the fuck up!” He takes a quick step towards Jaskier and then stops dead, jaw clenched. His eyes are hard and dark. His lips are slightly parted. He’s breathing heavily. Jaskier thinks he’s never looked lovlier.

“Oh? Is something wrong, my love? Maybe you’re jealous? Maybe, you wish you were the one who threw me down and ripped my pantaloons and thrust in _dry._ ”

Geralt can’t take it any more. He grabs Jaskier by the shoulders and gives him a small shake. “Stop it. Now. I don’t want to hear about it.”

His hands leave bruises that make him ashamed. Jaskier loves the marks. He doesn’t love Geralt’s pinched expression whenever he sees them.

* * *

It takes a long time, after that, for Jaskier to persuade Geralt to bruise him. His genuine upset and the accidental marking convince the Witcher that he’s dangerous. Again.

They fall back into a routine whereby Jaskier completely takes charge while Geralt lies there like a glorified sex doll.

He edges them back into it slowly.

“Put your hands on my hips,” he says, while riding Geralt in a shed on some sweet old lady’s farm. Geralt does as he’s told, but he makes no move to do anything with his new grip.

“Lift me. Move me. You set the pace. Just your hands. Don’t you dare move your hips. Geralt. You are going to use my tight little hole. Understood?”

Geralt gives him a look of genuine confusion that doesn’t dissipate until they start moving again. His strong hands lift Jaskier up, until only the tip of his cock is inside him, then ease him back down.

Understanding dawns and he does it again and again and again. Gently at first, unsatisfyingly so, but it builds and builds until he’s picking up the bard and near _dropping_ him back down again. They climax in an exhausted tangle. Jaskier hums and cuddles and praises his boy for doing _such a good job_.

These bruises last for a week and Jaskier makes sure Geralt notices how he admires them at every opportunity.

* * *

They’re in Aedirn when Jaskier finds a way to show Geralt how deep his masochistic urges run. There’s a party, thankfully run by a fair, pointy woman who _isn’t_ Yennefer. Jaskier, in truth, has never been to a sex party before. His sexual experience, whilst vast, is contained only to men and women from the taverns and, on one memorable occasion, a rather saucy threesome in a spa with a delightful older couple.

They go to the party mainly to watch, so Geralt can see floggings and whippings very different to those of criminals in town squares.

He’s transfixed by the heavy but soft floggers, the whips that draw welts instead of slices, the hard paddles and wooden spoons that many a grandmother has turned on their children.

Most of all, he’s taken in by the soft moans and deep, guttural groans, and begs and pleads for both more and the end.

He’s finally relaxing, watching a girl dragging a clawed glove down a rather massive man’s stomach, when Jaskier spots a Sorcerer offering small vials of clear fluid to several of the richer guests.

Jaskier, a man who never refuses an opportunity to replenish his lubricant, sidles over with Geralt trailing behind.

“Excuse me, Sir Sorcerer, what exactly is that?” He points at the man’s bag.

“A bruise balm.”

At Jaskier’s fairly repulsed look, the man laughs. “Not a healing potion, Sir. A _preserver.”_

“You mean?”

“It’s not for cuts, mind, but any bruising you wish to keep, smooth a little over the skin twice a day for a week and you’ll be marked for life.”

Jaskier had never thought about it before, but the second the words leave the sorcerer’s mouth, he has to have it.

“I’ll take it.”

They buy the balm, and a suede flogger that Geralt believes he could wield without ‘feeling like an abuser’ and take off to the inn to try out both in private. Jaskier is tempted by the benches and crosses in the main hall of the event, but he knows he’s reached Geralt’s limit for the day.

Their spending leaves them sleeping on the road and eating purely what they can catch for the next week, but Jaskier doesn’t regret it. Neither does Geralt, it appears, who is oddly choked up when Jaskier pulls out the balm following a particularly enthusiastic romp against the tree. Five small ovals on each thigh, preserved forever.

* * *

The balm only lasts for that one set of markings. Geralt refuses to allow him to source any more. Whilst he sees the appeal of the one set, he can’t bear the thought of Jaskier wandering through life adorned with permanent and unexplainable markings.

And yet, it’s never enough for Jaskier. He has the set. Geralt is finally fucking him as he wants. Pliant and obedient and very, very rough.

But finger bruises are no longer novelty, and he has a set he adores. He admires the fleeting ones, but they’re muchly the same, just less important.

“Bite me,” he murmurs, as he strokes both of their cocks together. Geralt does as he’s told, of course.

“Harder. Don’t let go until you cum.” He knows it will be at least another minute. He also knows that Geralt will bite down harder the closer he gets to orgasm. He just won’t be able to help it.

He’s right. When Geralt pulls away, covered in both of their spend, there’s a small amount of Jaskier’s blood on his lip.

The bard reaches up and swipes it with his own thumb, which he presses into Geralt’s mouth in a silent demand to suck.

“My good man. So good. Thank you darling.”

* * *

After the bite, which scars without the help of some red-haired man’s potion, it’s a lot easier. The praise after is what does it, Jaskier thinks. Geralt can’t possibly berate himself when Jaskier is so full of adoration and admiration and satiation after every new play.

They’re being chased by bandits when Jaskier finally gets something he’s been fantasising about since that first punch, back when he’d called Geralt a Butcher.

The three bandits are chasing down “two peacocking queers who cheated at Gwent”. The peacocking part Jaskier takes as a compliment. He and Geralt are both dressed in blue and ivory doublets, courtesy of their latest job. Witchers only take coin, but Bards make sure they and their partners are always suitably dressed for a show.

It’s Geralt’s idea that they lose the doublets and attempt to look as rough as possible. They hide their finery under a damaged porch and stagger around, feigning drunkenness.

“You, you stole my goat!” Jaskier slurs loudly. He punctuates the ridiculous statement by swinging one arm uselessly and feigning a stumble on a hard bump of mud.

“Well you stole my **Wife _._** _”_ Geralt returns, squaring up.

A few gamblers walk over to watch. Geralt notices one grabbing a quill.

He shoves Jaskier. It’s gentle, but Jaskier leans into in and allows himself to be moved.

“Did you just _push_ me? What are you, a girl?”

He spots one of the bandits on the edge of the group of spectators, frowning slightly. He can’t tell if he recognises them, Jaskier realises.

He swings an arm back and lands a very real punch to Geralt’s stomach. It’s reminiscent of the one he remembers so well and he can’t help but smile.

The audience take that as a sign of confidence and cheer for him. He nods his head towards the bandit. Geralt spots him. He also spots one of the other two in the trees behind Jaskier.

Both bandits aren’t sure, he can tell. They need it to look real, or they _will_ get a proper beating.

Geralt swings a foot out and trips Jaskier. He catches him at the last second and shoves him back. Jaskier lands on his back, but it’s a much softer landing than he would have gotten, had Geralt not intervened.

It’s a mistake. He can see the man behind Jaskier is looking less confused and more like the angry barbarian he’d been at the table. Geralt tenses.

“Is that all you’ve got? You fight like a fucking nancy-boy,” Jaskier taunts loudly, and damn, but that forces a harsh laugh out of the Witcher. The crowd laugh too, obnoxious and drunken.

Geralt knows he’s supposed to be angry. Instead, with Jaskier underneath him, eyes dark, flushed and panting, he’s vaguely _excited_. He recognises the challenge in his partner’s words. Jaskier’s always been a bit of a whore for a reaction. He knows that, for once, Geralt will have no choice but to respond.

Jaskier tilts his head slightly back, slightly to one side, and the light of the fires catches on the edge of one sharp cheekbone.

Geralt somehow knows exactly what Jaskier wants. He also knows that he doesn’t have the time to come up with another plan.

He sits on his partner, holding his weight still with his hips, and lets go of his throat and shoulder. He pulls back one hand in a tight fist and literally just _bops_ Jaskier’s face. The cheekbone, right under and to the side of the eye. To the audience, it looks like he’s punched him right in the eye.

Jaskier cries out. It’s genuine. It’s full of pain and shock. It’s also laced with arousal.

“How’s that for nancy-boy?? Clear off, you wife-snatching scoundrel!”

He gets up and allows Jaskier to scurry away.

The townsfolk, satisfied with their show, return to their own pursuits.

Geralt watches as the two bandits shrug at each other and go back into the tavern before following Jaskier out into the forest. He scoops up their clothing on the way and catches up before Jaskier even reaches the clearing.

“I’m sorry,” the words leave his mouth before he’s even at Jaskier’s side.

“Sorry?!” Jaskier shrieks. He takes the bundle from Geralt’s hands, chucks it to the ground, and jumps into the other man’s arm, wrapping his legs around his waist.

If Geralt had any doubt about Jaskier’s arousal before, he doesn’t now. It’s hard and pressed against his hip. The bard kisses the Witcher desperately, biting at his lips and sucking the supple flesh.

“Don’t ever be sorry. That is the _best_ thing that has _ever_ happened to me.”

Jaskier is insane, Geralt realises. He doesn’t just want a flogging or a spanking or a display of Geralt’s strength in a strangely acrobatic shag. He wants to _feel_ Geralt’s raw Witcher power. He’s possible aggression. Jaskier wants to control that Witcher aggression and violence, and Geralt finally understands it. What a rush it must be, for any human to feel that power, let alone one as fucked up as Jaskier.

They fuck in the dirt. Not standing up, for once. Not with Jaskier on top. Not with him demanding Geralt drill into him. For once, no more words are needed.

Jaskier pulls Geralt down to the ground and they strip the remainder of each other’s clothing feverishly. When Jaskier guides Geralt’s cock to his hole–a silent order–they are both lying on their sides, Geralt’s arms locked firmly around his bard and one leg draped over his hip.

He fucks into him dry, at Jaskier’s very physical insistence, and Jaskier remembers to stroke him and lightly scratch over his head to remind Geralt that he is being very, very good, doing exactly what Jaskier wants.

They come, strangely, with no power dynamics at all. It peaks naturally, with Jaskier biting at Geralt’s bicep and Geralt himself grazing over Jaskier’s earlobe with his teeth.

* * *

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

The words leave his mouth before he’s even thought them through.

They’ve parted ways the last two winters. Geralt’s always wanted the break to reign in Jaskier’s ever-increasing masochistic tendencies. He always builds, when they’re together. A spanking will be lovely in spring, but by the end of summer he wants to be thoroughly abused.

The break gives him time to heal over, for his skin to soften again. For Geralt to see his brothers without them seeing the monster he’s become for his bard.

He doesn’t feel ashamed or as guilty, anymore. Mostly. The feelings approach as winter does, but only because they’ve been getting to levels of ultra-violence that are more like a fight…if only one person’s doing the hitting.

He loves Jaskier. He won’t deny him anything. But maybe Jaskier won’t want to play, in the keep with his brothers in earshot. Maybe it’ll be like spring. In November. They’ll cuddle and hold each other and love one another. And occasionally, just occasionally, Geralt will be ordered to spank and choke and they’ll collapse in a puddle of tangled, exhausted limbs together.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the film 'Summer in February'. It's loosely a sequel to 'Not What You Think', but you don't have to read that first. That one has no porn in it ;)


End file.
